Sitting Like a Bloke: The Nurse Demands Equality

December 24, 2014 | By

the bottom half of a man sitting in a chairBetty is petite and elegant, a fragrant little silver-haired lady in pretty twin sets and neat tweed skirts. She’s naturally ladylike.

The Nurse, on the other hand, is one of those big, gangly, raw boned, coarse haired, ruddy skinned Englishwomen who look better in a hand knitted sweater and horsey slacks than twin setted and pearled. If asked to describe herself, she’d admit she looks rather like a large, unkempt terrier. Only not as friendly.

It takes all kinds. And although The Nurse isn’t ladylike as such, she makes an effort. Forcing her abundant, wiry hair into a Thatcheresque bouffe, she flatters her mannish figure with military-precise tailoring, softening the slightly alarming effect with patterned silk scarves and discreet gold jewellery. She’d like to think she can pass as a lady, although some of the requirements of lady-dom get on her tits something rotten.

Take last night. When Betty asked her to “sit ladylike”,  The Nurse saw red. Tradition dictates sitting in a ladylike fashion means keeping your knees glues together or crossing your legs. Neither of which are particularly comfortable. Whereas men can sit any way they like, including the classic bloke pose: legs splaying wide and – depending on the trouser trend of the time – happily displaying their meat ‘n’ two veg in spectacular high relief.

In a subtle way, women are being physically controlled according to draconian values. To preserve our feminine virtue and appear appropriately modest, we’re still being brought up to sit nicely instead of comfortably. It’s a kind of repression. Equality it isn’t.

The Nurse likes to be comfy. She can’t be bothered with most of society’s norms, although she does a pretty good job of blending in. She has to, given her inability to stop killing people and her steely determination to steer clear of prison – fuck that for a lark. But she should be able to do anything she likes in her own home, behind closed doors. And that includes letting the air circulate around her fanny whenever the need or desire arises.

If The Nurse feels like sitting in the kitchen with her legs wide open, vag in clear view of the whole of Christendom, surely that’s her prerogative. If she fancies a lazy afternoon indoors flapping her flaps to the rhythm of a House music tune – or even throwing shapes with the blasted things – so be it. It’s her home and she can give her beef curtains an airing any time she sees fit. The way she sits doesn’t make her any less of a lady.

On the other hand, The Nurse ruminates, her need to remain safely anonymous and invisible doesn’t dovetail well with bus loads of passengers fainting at the sight of her pale, wrinkly wizard’s sleeves as she gets comfy on the short journey to George Street shops. Perhaps in Kemptown. But Hove? Hm. Probably not.

The solution to the dilemma at home is clear. It’s such fun having a killing partner. The Nurse doesn’t want to offend Betty. So she’ll keep her knees well and truly together when Betty’s there… and let everything hang nice and loose when she’s alone. Not normally one to compromise, The Nurse is rather chuffed with herself.

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